


🍅🍆💦

by TheMouthKing



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Because that's what it is, Food Porn, Masturbation, Other, RIP Tomato, but actually, but there are thoughts of rhink so i'm adding the tag, but to be fair so am I, crimes against god and nature, graphic depictions of violence to a tomato, guess i should also tag this, pre rhink, this whole fic is a shitpost, we have tomatoes, welcome to my trashcan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 11:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18207497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMouthKing/pseuds/TheMouthKing
Summary: Theyhypnotized Link to like tomatoes. Ssodangdark said what we were all thinking, re: the apricot scene in CMBYN. So I went there.I'm not sorry about it.





	🍅🍆💦

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ssodangdark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssodangdark/gifts), [mythicaliz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythicaliz/gifts).



> First and foremost, thanks to everyone else who had this thought with me for making me feel less alone in my trashcan. Second, thank you goes to my great betas, Rhinkipoo, Thefrenchmaidoutfit and my eternally wonderful Master Beta thisiscyrene (killthenaughtyboy on tumblr). 
> 
> Third, I love tomatoes.*
> 
> Fourth, thanks to Liz for the title. You are inspired.
> 
>    
>  **Some reviews:**
> 
> "this feels like you've committed some sort of crime" -- definitely not Cyrene, and _definitely_ not in response to a certain song lyric
> 
> "your garbage is valid & so are u" -- one (1) pudding cup

Link’s standing over the sink with a tomato in his hand. 

He doesn’t remember just how he got here, knows he was headed to the kitchen for a snack. Those last half dozen steps from the countertop to the island sink feel like the autopilot that brings him home from work sometimes. His mind had wandered even though he’d been driving, though his body had brought him here. 

The tomato is heavy and cool to the touch, but not cold. The skin is firm beneath his palm and fingertips, not quite waxy but _almost_. He’s never really taken the time to notice much about a tomato before right now, which sounds insane because of course he knows what a tomato is and what it looks and feels like. Right? He could describe one if you asked him to. 

Link’s hated tomatoes as long as he could remember. It’s not the taste, it’s the texture. But it’s the taste, too. It’s how soft they are inside, how they’re almost filmy to the touch and how they crush under pressure and go slimy. He _hates_ them. The mouth feel is terrible, the slippery, pulpy seeds, the difference between the skin and the insides. He hates the fact that when you bite down on one it bursts in your mouth. He hates the noises they make when you eat them, sickly wet. 

But things have shifted just slightly. Holding this tomato now, thumb worrying over its firm flesh, he’s thinking about what it feels like on the inside. His mind matches it up a little differently now, and standing here over the sink he can’t help comparing it wonderingly to a peach. Somehow he doesn’t tie the wet interior of it to something gross but to the silky-slick inside of an overripe Georgia peach. 

And he wonders. Did it _really_ work? 

His thumb finds a soft spot and settles there, presses in, deepens it to a new bruise and watches the red skin wrinkle under the pressure. Slowly, he lets it sink in, thumb tearing a hole in the flesh. He’s not sure what he’d expected, but he’s surprised to see his thumb disappear inside. Maybe he thought it wouldn’t work like that, that digging his thumb in would start to tear it in two, but it’s like finding a hole that’s always been there and prying it open like a prize. He can’t help but draw parallels between this and fingering someone, especially when he eases his thumb out and back in and the juice squelches out, seeds and pulp streaming over his skin, seeping down his hand. The sound is obscene, this soft, wet sucking sound as his thumb fucks in.

It’s tight at first, oddly solid inside, just barely enough room there for that thumb, but as he slowly thumbfucks the hole he’d made, he’s crushing the fleshy tissue down, making space inside for more than just a digit. 

This feels obscene. It _looks_ obscene. Every thrust of his thumb splits the fruit a little more, the thumbhole splintering outward from the center like a starburst while the juice keeps seeping out, bubbling up almost frothy from the air he’s working into it. It’s the oddest feeling, slimy inside but not slippery or sticky between his fingers and palm, just wet.

He’s surprised at how pungent the tomato is when it’s torn open in his hand. Though he knows he has, it feels as though he’s never experienced a tomato before in his life. He’s struck by how it smells and is hard-pressed to put words to it, but if he had to, he’d describe it like a pocket of summer sun he’s squeezing the life out of as he digs his thumb in deeper. 

Inside it’s cool and gritty and _wet_. He can’t discern the flesh from the seeds, too unfamiliar with the insides of the fruit to name the things he’s feeling. He thinks it’s strange that it feels so different inside, some spots soft and yielding and other parts firm, almost solid, impassible walls. 

He’s not turned on by the tomato itself, but there _is_ something sexual about this. 

That’s not the hypnosis. Wires didn’t get crossed while he was under. This isn’t a spontaneous tomato fetish, it’s just that he finds himself open to noticing aspects of the tomato that he likes about other things. Link likes things wet, likes them messy. He likes the episodes where he becomes food - that time they rolled him into sushi, turned him into tea, into pizza. He loves giving himself over to that level of chaos, letting go and getting nasty when he normally likes to stay neat and clean. Getting that messy feels like permission to let go of more than just cleanliness, but to drop all those delicate threads of control and just be whatever it is that he is in that moment.

And in _this_ moment, he’s getting randy from the wet fucking sounds he’s pulling from a fruit he normally despises. His hand is wet with juice but not slick and not sticky, and he hates it but he _doesn’t quite_ and he can’t help the wild leap his brain makes from crushing the tomato in his hand to wanting to feel that squishy wetness crushing _elsewhere_. It’s not even a full thought, just a jump from where he was to _I wonder?_ To thoughts of enjoying it, of having a great time with it. Before he knows it he’s grasping the tomato in two hands, both thumbs pressing inside as he tries to pry it in half, but instead it tears open wide, splits where it’s already torn but mostly holds the roundness of its shape even if it’s going soft. 

Casting a guilty glance around the dark kitchen, he pushes his pajama pants down with the knuckles of his cleaner hand like he thinks there’s a way to escape this without succumbing to the mess. The other hand follows, pressing the hollow, half crushed face of the tomato against his still mostly soft cock just to see how it feels.

Instantly, there’s a rush of regret and weird guilt. He’s wondering what the hell brought him to this moment, he’s judging himself too harshly for the act he’s in the middle of committing. There’s a long second that feels like it flattens out and gives him all the time in the world to overthink this without pulling him out of the moment, and right there he wonders what people would think. What would Christy say if she saw? What would Rhett do? 

Rhett might be less surprised. After all, Rhett’s been there by his side for all his previous messes. He’s seen him toe the line when they’re filming the show, too much in the public eye each time to fully jump off and sink beneath this thing, but he’s seen it. How when he’s covered over in layers of food and mess he settles, drifts. It was best with the nachos, better when that first layer was semi-liquid and he was completely slathered from head to toe, goggles sealed over, blotting out the light. It’s half sensory, half he doesn’t quite know. He hasn’t analysed this, hasn’t picked it apart to figure it out, he just knows sometimes, _sometimes_ he can get lost in getting dirty and when things start to rise to a head of stress he can’t control, this is something he starts to crave. _This_ , the feeling that getting messy gives him.

Link feels like he’s never smelled a tomato before right now, feels like he’s discovering the details of it for the very first time, like he’s a tomato virgin. If you’d asked him yesterday, he wouldn’t have been able to describe the scent of a tomato other than to tell you they smell like tomatoes and he hates them. Truthfully, he can’t describe it right now, but there’s a difference in how it hits him. It smells like warm garden air. The word _refreshing_ comes to mind. It smells sweet. 

The flesh of it feels squishy on his cock, not wholly unlike grinding his half-hard cock between slick vulva lips, but right now it’s fodder for imagining how it’d feel to grind down on Rhett with nothing between them except a hefty dollop of lube. That aspect of the fantasy is more familiar than he lets himself admit to, definitely not the first time he’s jerked off and let himself wonder what it would be like if Rhett joined him. But it’s a fantasy he’s never acted on and probably never will. Maybe that’s fine and maybe it’s not, but today isn’t about the war raging on inside his chest when he thinks of Rhett - it’s about the fruit he’s fucking. It’s still cool rather than dizzyingly hot like human skin would be, like _Rhett_ would be, and the wet isn’t slick like lube or _wetness_ , instead it’s thin and subtly grainy as the pulp crushes under his hand, against the length of his cock. 

What’s possessed him to do this? God only knows, and hopefully He’s not looking as Link shifts to the right of the sink to lean forward over the island. He braces there like he’s torn between rubbing himself off with the fruit in his hand and settling into position to imagine being fucked. His free hand splays on the marble only to curl into a fist, leaving the ghost of a condensation print behind as he rocks forward into the pulpy fruit in his palm, his mind supplying the idea of someone, of _Rhett_ , pressed up against him from behind.

He’s getting harder with every passing second, and he curls the split and torn tomato around himself, fucking through his tight wet grip. This is nasty-good, feels filthy, _wrong_. The tighter he grips his cock in his tomato fist, the more it mushes around him, loses integrity and starts to fall apart. He feels the flesh and the juice warming to his skin, not as cool now as when he’d started in. The liquid is dripping down his balls and inner thighs. He’s making a mess of his clothes, feels the soft flannel start to cling damply to his legs the juicier he gets, feels a sick trickle of it making its way down to his ankle. _Fuck_ , he’s going to have to mop the kitchen floor when he’s done. Unhelpfully, and hilariously, his brain supplies a near-forgotten lyric - _love, the kind you clean up with a mop and bucket_ \- and he can’t help the reflexive grin, nor the giggle that erupts from him right then. There’s no denying this is funny. Even now, achingly hard and caught up in the rush of the mess, and the risk of getting off in the middle of his kitchen while everyone’s in bed, he can’t help see the absurd humor in it.

As tension coils in him, his laugh falls away in the dark kitchen, hand squeezing around his cock, tomato splitting and squishing out between his fingers. He feels a chunk of tomato fall down the leg of his pants, a disgusting, pulpy mess. This would be better with more tomatoes, it’d be better if he was covered in them, rolling on them, crushing them under the weight of his body. He feels that graininess under his palm, against his cock and imagines it everywhere, imagines it slipping over his chest and belly, all his soft delicate places that ache for attention. 

He’s racing his mind to the finish line, keeping ahead of the thoughts that are pushed down with the rush of being nasty, of dipping into an experience that takes up so many of his senses at once. There isn’t room here for more than this, for more than the squishy friction of the tomato’s pulp as he works it up and down the length of his cock. 

His other hand’s still is damp from trying to tear the fruit in half, and as his body curls forward over the island, he can smell the tomato juice on his skin. Cheek pressed his to the cool marble, he unfurls the fingers of the hand not getting him off for a taste, and for the comfort of a caress against his mouth, even if it’s his own. His plush lips part just for the sensation of mouthing over something, imagining his fingers are Rhett’s or even the head of his cock. His tongue darts out for a taste, draws over his thumb and sucks it slowly between his lips. 

Like earlier, there’s a tomato sweetness clinging to him that he doesn’t want to waste. He sucks his thumb, searches for the last traces of summer on his skin and fucks into the tomato in his hand, working hard not to lose the mashed remains that are somehow still hanging on. He swallows a groan and lurches close, _closer_. The tomato is starting to lose any and all form that would suggest it used to be what it was, already all that’s left of it just a pink pulpy mess of juice and seeds and skin.

His lips part into a groan as he pulls his thumb out, soft scented fingertips dragging over his open mouth, his lips, and he licks them slowly like a lover might.

What if Rhett were watching him? What would he say if he saw him like this, overcome with lust out in the open in his kitchen where anyone could walk in on him? The thought spurs him on, speeds his hand, catches his breath. He’s close. _If Rhett were here_ \-- his mind fills in the blanks. He imagines those long, thick fingers curling in his mouth to muffle his moans instead of his own, poor substitutes. He can practically feel Rhett’s long body blotting out his raw, needy nerves, pressed against him from behind, covering him over. It’s with that thought flickering through his mind that he comes into what’s left of the tomato held tightly in his hand, over the base of the island he’s clinging to. 

After the first wave pleasure courses through him, the fever fades and clarity hits. He’s alone in his kitchen with his pajamas tugged to his thighs, standing in a puddle of tomato juice and seeds and his own… juice and seeds, to get technical about it, he thinks to himself. Shame hits him like an incoming tide. He’s quick to pull his pants up, shake out the bits of grainy pulp stuck down the legs of his pants, and wipe off his feet with a kitchen towel. It’s a process to return the kitchen to a clean state, one that involves taking the trash out to rid the kitchen of the evidence, wiping down surfaces, throwing in a load of laundry and finding fresh pajamas before revisiting the kitchen to ensure he’d covered his tracks. Returning everything to normal is usually half the fun, but he’d never brought this home before. He’d never needed to.

**Author's Note:**

> *Two tomatoes were harmed in the making of this fic.
> 
> Thanks for liking, commenting and subscribing! 🙃


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